


Well, aren't you a good boy?

by Baryshnikov



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Gay yearning, M/M, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:49:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22887346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: Abraxas gets caught staring at Tom, but the consequences of that might just be better than he could have imagined.
Relationships: Abraxas Malfoy/Tom Riddle
Comments: 4
Kudos: 62





	Well, aren't you a good boy?

**Author's Note:**

> It has been way too long since I last wrote just these two so I hope this is alright.

Abraxas swallowed for the third time in fifteen minutes. He couldn’t help it. Not when he’d been sitting in the common room for a couple of hours now, teasing himself with the image of something he wasn’t allowed to have. Tom. That was the unattainable prize they all scrapped for, vying with each other just to have a moment of his attention. But none of the others were around tonight, which meant Abraxas had Tom all to himself, so it was only fair that he should get to look at him and wonder. 

Across the room, Tom was sitting, completely oblivious to the world around him as he continued to read; his legs were crossed, and his left arm was stretched elegantly along the length of the chair arm, his fingers curled around his book as it lay in his palm. Like that he was so… elegant, sophisticated, in a way that few teenagers could manage, and infinitely poised; there was power in that stance, but it was different to the power to Abraxas and the rest of them exuded. 

Their power was a physical one; it was inlaid in their bodies, and their money, and their names. But Tom’s power was far more subtle and far more pervasive. It sat there, in the palms of his hands and on the tip of his tongue; Tom held more influence in one decibel of his voice than most men would have in their entire lives, and anyone who denied that was a fool. 

It was the way he spun stories with his mouth, making great dreams appear almost tangible like the spray of the sea on your skin, and he could do the same with nightmares. Tom was the first person that Abraxas had ever met who could marry pain and pleasure so exquisitely; his mouth and his tongue and his hands dishing out each in equal measure, and sometimes even, at the same time. 

Beautiful words wedded to appalling actions that made Abraxas bite his lip to think about. 

He swallowed again, and let his eyes wander from Tom’s hands, up along his arm and lingering for a moment on the bones of his shoulders, still visible through his shirt, before continuing up to his neck. As Abraxas watched, Tom tilted his head to the side a little, brow furrowing as he read over a sentence again, tracing the line with the tip of his nail, and _oh_ did he look so good. 

Scholarly and cultured and intelligent, and all the things that Abraxas himself was supposed to be but had never quite managed to perfect. It was no secret that Abraxas was definitively average at almost everything – good, but never sensational, proficient but not phenomenal. In fact, the only subject that he was outstanding in was potions, and that was only because he was partnered with Tom who was a surprisingly patient tutor. 

Abraxas liked to think Tom wasn’t so patient with anyone else.

He’d have liked to be special to Tom. To be able to sit next to him, right up in his personal space and just _touch_ him in the same way that Muggles touched the icons of their gods. Just the thought of being able to lace his fingers in between Tom’s and lean his head against his shoulder when no one else could, made Abraxas’ stomach turn over itself. 

Of course, there were _other_ things he’d like to do as well; things that made his stomach twist as though it were a lemon rung out by careless palms, leaving a tartness on the back of his throat and a longing in his fingers. Although he’d never admit it out loud, Abraxas wanted to be the one who got to savour Tom’s mouth, and the one who got to hook the sweetest sounds out of it; the one whose hair Tom would bury his fingers in, and the one who Tom would beg to give him a taste of satisfaction.

Abraxas chewed on his lip, his fingers curling themselves around the edge of the settee, unable to help himself picturing the scene: Tom beneath him, those dark eyes shining and that clever tongue still finding quick retorts, even as his breathing became increasing frayed at the edges and there was a quiver in his fingers, and he was pressing himself further into the bed and – 

“May I ask,” said Tom, interrupting the fantasy, “what exactly is it about my face that you suddenly find so fascinating, Malfoy?” He hadn’t looked up as he spoke, in fact, to most people he would still look like he was reading, but Abraxas could see that his eyes had stilled. Tom was simply waiting for a reply. 

“So?” Tom prompted, the hand that was not holding his book in place beginning to slide lightly over the seam of the seat, making a scratching sound the seemed to resonate throughout the room. It only emphasised that Abraxas hadn’t said anything, and what was he supposed to say? That he was fascinated by his best friend’s face because it was the most handsome thing he’d ever seen? 

That perfect balance of masculine sharpness and feminine grace, all at once rough and soft, beautiful in a classic, cultivated, way, but with something wild in his eyes that was vehement and vicious and just got Abraxas’ heart beating twice-pace every time he saw it. He was getting distracted, and Tom was still waiting for his answer; his fingers tapping now, each sound, one more step in the count down towards that moment where answering would no longer be in his best interests 

“Nothing,” Abraxas said eventually, still watching Tom, glutting himself on his image in case this was the last time he’d ever be allowed to look at him again. 

Tom’s mouth quirked up at the right-hand side and he looked up from his book. As he did so, his right hand closed and with it, the book snapped shut; the sharp sound making something in Abraxas’ stomach jolt. “If it was nothing,” Tom said, looking over at him, “I wouldn’t have caught you staring.”

“I wasn’t staring,” Abraxas replied automatically, though he could taste the lie on the tip of his tongue and he jerked his gaze to the floor, already feeling the steady warmth of a flush spilling over his skin; it was the curse of being so aristocratically pale. And if he knew he was lying, then Tom most certainly did as well. 

But Abraxas continued to look at the floor even as he heard the noise of movement across the room; that distinctive sound of a body peeling itself off of a leather seat, clothes sliding over the smoothness, and skin sticking. But as much as he wanted to look, to see exactly what Tom was doing, he didn’t. 

He _couldn’t_. 

He stayed looking at the floor even as he felt the space beside him fill up with human warmth and the sofa dip with the weight of another body. And they stayed like that for far too long, Abraxas still and tense, and Tom casual and relaxed, sitting there with his eyes fixed on Abraxas’ cheek; Abraxas could feel them burrowing into his skin and making the pulse in his neck throb so loud in his ear.

Tom was the one to break the silence.

“You _were_ staring,” he said slowly, choosing each word carefully and rolling it all over his tongue before he let it leave his mouth. “Now are _you_ going to tell me why, or, do I have to guess for myself?” he continued, never taking his eyes off Abraxas, even for a moment. That gaze alone was enough to ignite a burning under Abraxas’ skin; hot and dry, it scorched its way through his every blood vessel until each was desiccated and he was just gasping.

But he still didn’t move, not even to shift uncomfortably away from the intensity of Tom’s eyes. He just stayed there silently staring at the patterns in the stone and trying not to think about the weight of Tom’s gaze and what the weight of his fingers might be like pressed against his body. 

“Well, what’s it going to be, Malfoy?” Tom said, sharper that time, something acerbic threading its way between the syllables and making each word far more poignant, as though each one was a needle pushed further into Abraxas’ skin.

He wanted to say something. To deny that he was staring, to make up a pitiful excuse that would let them go back to Tom reading and him watching. But his tongue was dry and limp in his mouth and all the words that jumbled through his brain were inappropriate thoughts about the curve of Tom’s mouth, and the slight flexing of his fingers, and the slow shifting of his eyes. 

“Okay,” Tom said, after another long stretch of silence, “if that’s what you want, I’ll have to guess.” As he spoke, Tom’s eyes wandered, taking in every inch of Abraxas’ embarrassingly pink skin and smiling to himself as he did so, as though there was something terribly amusing about this whole setup. Abraxas just shifted to the side, pressing himself into the corner, his hand gripping harder at the arm of the chair.

In his periphery, Abraxas could see Tom moving closer, his hand reaching out, when it touched his shoulder, he could help but tense. Not that that deterred Tom; he just leaned closer, his hand moving upward to touch at Abraxas’ jaw, and guiding his face to meet his own. When they were looking at each other, Tom smiled and let his hand slide down to touch at Abraxas’ neck, his fingers splayed out and his thumb pressing against the crest of his throat. Abraxas was going to protest, but before he could protest, Tom leaned that tiny bit closer and kissed him. And with the motion every thought that Abraxas had ever had just dissolved into a gooey mess because… _oh Salazar_ , Tom was actually kissing him; his mouth hot, and firm, and far too insistent for its own good.

It was over _far_ too soon. 

And Abraxas was left there with his mouth hanging open and his breathing coming in heady lungsful that didn’t seem to be doing anything. Tom was looking far too pleased with himself, the very personification of the cat that had got the cream, and probably access to the entire dairy aisle. “I thought so,” he said with a smug smile, “you are so very obvious, Malfoy.” 

If it was possible, Abraxas flushed a deeper shade of pink and tried to stutter out some sort of response because this was absolutely not how Tom was supposed to find out about these feelings. But he didn’t get very far before Tom’s thumb was pressing against his lips. “Speaking of which,” Tom said, apparently continuing his previous trail of thought; though he paused for a painfully long time to let his gaze dip down the full length of Abraxas’ body, licking his lips as he did so, “why don’t you get on your knees?”

“What?”

Tom quirked an eyebrow and smiled at him, that lovely dazzling smile that could make diamonds melt. “You heard me, Malfoy,” he said, “I want you to get on your knees.” This time, he removed the slight intonation at the end and any hope of it being merely a request dissolved, now it was a command, and Tom’s commands were always fulfilled.

But not by Malfoys. 

And Abraxas was going to say something clever and impressive about how Malfoys did not just _get to their knees_ , but before he could, Tom’s hand was sliding down onto the back of his neck. Those cool fingers pressing under his collar and sending a chill down his spine.   
“I know you want to,” Tom murmured, increasing the persuasive pressure of his fingertips, smoothing them in soft, circular motions that got Abraxas squirming; tensing at the muscles in his back, and his shoulders and his neck, just to try and feel the weight of Tom’s palm as it pressed into his skin

“And I _really_ want you to,” he continued, that tone soft on the vowels and husky on the consonants, making a seductive weight hang between each word that pulled at him like rocks tied to his body that dragged him down to the bottom of the ocean.

“I know you’ll _indulge_ me, won’t you, Abraxas?” he murmured against Abraxas’ ear, his tongue catching against the shell, and his name just dripping out of Tom’s mouth, so hot and rich and wanting that it just liquified that last solid part of him. In that single moment Abraxas would have given Tom anything he’d asked for: money, connections, influence – _Merlin_ – he would have married him if Tom had asked him to. And still, Tom didn’t stop. 

“After all, you want to _please_ me, don’t you?” Tom continued, pulling far away enough that his eyes came into focus again. There was such a darkness in those eyes; a wide, glassy expanse like marshland at dusk, and just like a marsh he had to tread carefully because like the mud Tom never gave second chances. 

So, Abraxas swallowed again and hoped his ancestors would forgive him for acquiescing because Tom wanted _him_ , and he’d be a fool to deny himself what he’d been wishing for, for so long now. With little grace or much finesse, because the dynamics were harder than he’d expected, Abraxas slid down onto his knees, placing himself firmly between Tom’s spread thighs. 

Immediately, Tom’s ankle hooked around him, the heel of his shoe pressing into the base of his spine. Pain balanced alongside pleasure in just the best way. Tom leaned down, not close enough to kiss him, but still close enough to feel the heat of his tongue as he spoke. “Such a good boy,” he said, his hand reaching forward and stroking down the line of Abraxas’ cheek before cupping his jaw, “I suppose it’s only fair that I let you have a reward.”

With that, Tom let go of him and leant back into the leather of the chair, his eyes shining in just the way Abraxas had imagined, and that same, hungry, smile spread over his mouth. “Well, go on,” he said, “prove to me what a _good_ boy you can be, Abraxas.”

He didn’t need to be asked again.


End file.
